


Play Me

by ChristyCorr



Category: The Prestige (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grew Up Apart, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Explosions, Guns, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Nikita AU, Undercover, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2800931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/pseuds/ChristyCorr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rogue black ops agency Prestige thought they were in trouble when Alfred Borden, one of their best agents, jumped ship. They didn't know the half of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeldadestry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this, zeldadestry!
> 
> This is an AU vaguely based on the initial premise of the show _[Nikita](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1592154/)_. (It's only slightly more incest-y than that show is femslashy.)
> 
> Thanks to [A](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/A) for the brainstorming and the incest feelings; to [firstlightofeos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos) for the amazing betaing; to [Aurum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurum) for the Polish-picking; to T for the Britpicking; to the usual suspects for the pompoms, the alcohol and all the lolsob. You're all incredible ♥

"What did it feel like when you pulled the trigger, Bernard?"

This is it. The main question in the debrief, the most dangerous trap Olivia's set for him, the one lie he absolutely has to sell. She's watching, every sensor in the stark white room tuned to his breathing, heartbeat, even brainwaves. He's been training for this for years—his whole life, maybe.

"It was a rush," he confesses. 

He takes a breath, not too deep, pretending to relive the moment. He doesn't think about the gun, the shot, the panicked yells around the room as his target fell to the ground. He squares his shoulders minutely and focuses on Olivia. 

He doesn't think about Al.

He's not even sure any of this is a lie anymore.

"It felt like a job well done. I was proud."

Olivia smiles.

**2008**

Bernard—going by Samuel at the time—is high as a kite the first time he sees Al. He's crashing with this couple he's been fucking for the past few months—they grow their own weed, such an amazing high, and the sex isn't half bad—when all of a sudden he sees _himself_ standing by the door. Bizarro him, though, all sleek hair and military posture and shit. With an actual gun, despite his obvious Britishness. Dude clearly went terribly wrong somewhere.

At first he thinks he may be on a really weird trip, but no: apparently he has a long-lost twin (what the fuck) who goes by Alfred, no last name offered. It's a terrible name, so Bernard laughs and immediately decides to call him "Al" instead, which makes the guy twitch—even better.

It's total bullshit to say Bernard's been feeling incomplete his whole life without his twin or anything like that, but it does feel...curious to meet him. He wants to know everything, maybe just sit and share a joint and ramble about the fucked-up-ness of life and the universe. That'd be awesome. Maybe an interesting guy is hiding under that uptight exterior.

Maybe they aren't all that meant to be, though, because Al? Total buzzkill. He says he just wanted to check up on Bernard, make sure he was safe, whatever the hell that means. He's on the run from some government crap or another, doesn't want to get Bernard into trouble, and they shouldn't see each other again. He leaves an emergency number, though, just in case. Bernard calls him lots of creative names implying all sorts of things about their parentage, but Al just leaves.

Fuck him, whatever.

**2012**

There isn't exactly a party when someone graduates to full agent at the Prestige. 

Bernard gets a tracking implant in his neck, a small arsenal of guns and blades to keep nearby at all times, a cover identity and keys to a Bloomsbury flat. He's now free to come and go from the underground Prestige command centre—for a given value of free, of course, that includes surveillance and being permanently on-call for Prestige. He gets surprise visits every few days from his handler, Robert, and Robert’s partner slash allegedly-only-cover girlfriend Julia.

During his first weeks out, Bernard spends his days establishing a boring routine for the benefit of watching agency eyes: working out, sometimes reading, and most of all scouring every charity shop in London to make his new place look actually lived-in.

He's considering Afghan rugs in a shop backroom when a familiar step cadence approaches from behind.

"It's much harder to clean bloodstains from rugs, you know," Al says.

Bernard turns around. The too-familiar face he hasn't seen in the mirror in years is stretched tight, thinner and more haggard than it had been the last time they'd met. But Al looks good, looks _real_ , unlike everyone Bernard has seen in far too long. He wraps his arms around Al, burying his face in Al's neck, and just—sags. He has barely _breathed_ in two years of constant hyper-vigilance; he's so, so exhausted.

Al gets it, of course he does. He tugs at Bernard's hair to pull him closer, keeps an eye on the surroundings so Bernard doesn't have to. "I got you a burner phone," he says, lips brushing Bernard's ear.

Bernard grins, and doesn't let go. "Missed you too, prick."

**2008**

Bernard's still angry about his newfound brother a day and four tequila shots later, so he calls the number Al had given him for emergencies. Screw him, having a complete jerk for a brother is definitely an emergency.

Al picks up on the first ring.

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? You're a prick, that's what's wrong," Bernard spits, and okay, maybe he doesn't exactly have a game plan here. "Should've figured if I had a brother he'd be a complete jerk."

"Yes."

Bernard stares at the phone for a moment in disbelief. "That's all you have to say?"

"What did you expect?" Bernard knows that voice—that's his eyeroll-voice. It only makes him angrier. "I am a prick, yes. Takes one, probably. Is that all?"

Okay, the unapologetic douchebaggery is almost endearing. "Why did you come looking for me?"

"I told you, I had to make sure you were safe—"

"Bullshit. If you're really in trouble, I'd be safer without knowing you existed. Why did you come looking for me?"

A pause. "I wanted to see what you were like. I wasn't expecting to learn I had a brother, and it intrigued me."

"How the hell did you even find out I existed? There was never anything with children's services about me having a brother. I should know, I went through the whole fucking 'finding myself' song and dance years ago."

"Yes, there's no official record of our connection, or even traces of a cover-up. The social worker that worked our case years ago kept handwritten diaries—she's dead, but they're still in a storage unit. She wrote that she'd altered your papers when we arrived and had you transferred to another county, because we'd have a better shot in the system if we weren't registered as siblings." It comes out crisp and factual, like he's reporting on a complete stranger's life. This guy, Bernard decides, is seriously fucked in the head. Just in case that hadn't been made abundantly clear by now. "I've destroyed the diaries. It's unlikely anyone will manage to find a link now."

"How did you find me?"

He cannot imagine how anyone could connect adoption records in Norwich with his current life as Samuel Tyson in Minnesota. There are at least a dozen discarded identities between one and the other—no friends in common, no cash trail, nothing. He's made certain of it.

"You're not bad." Bernard would be offended—he is pretty damn excellent, thank you very much—but one, he gets the distinct impression the guy doesn't praise people often at all; this probably counts as praise in Al-land. And two, the scary fuck _had_ managed to track Bernard down, despite everything. There's an almost audible shrug over the phone before, "I'm better." 

Bernard doesn't even know what makes him say, "You should teach me a few tricks."

"No. You do fine for a civilian. You won't need more than that."

"What about the fuckers you're running away from? Are you saying there's no chance they'll track me down thinking I'm you if they see me on a goddamn traffic camera somewhere?"

A long pause. "Maybe, but I really can't afford the time to spend weeks in Minnesota babysitting a wannabe-artist hipster who thinks he can relive his teenage years by smoking his brains out and swearing every other word. When you've had enough of that particular life, _Samuel_ —"

"Bernard."

"That's not your birth name," Al points out, and hesitates. "Do you—?"

"No." It's not a hard choice. "Doesn't matter. Bernard Fallon was the first name I chose for myself. Call me Bernard."

"All right, well. Mr Fallon. When you're ready to stop being Samuel, let me know. If you make your way to London and if I have time, maybe we can have a chat."

Bernard thinks about his current setup. He's been living with the McGraws for almost six months, which is quite the record, and far past the point where things got dull. He's been Samuel for approaching a year now, been feeling the itch to ditch everything and move on for half that—he just hasn't made up his mind as to who to be next, where to go, what to do.

Well, looks like he just has. Back home across the Atlantic it is.

"I'll be there in a week—and you'd better find the time, little brother."

"Our real birth records don't exist anymore, you couldn't possibly know—"

"Shut up, little brother," he says with gusto, and hangs up smiling.

**2012**

"What do you mean, you don't have a nomiku?" Robert calls out from the kitchen, pots and pans clacking as he goes through the kitchen cabinets. "When I said to slow cook the pork in advance, wasn't it obvious I meant _sous-vide_?"

Bernard opens his mouth to argue. "Don't," Julia says, grabbing his forearm. "Don't argue with Robert about kitchenware, Fallon. He was undercover as sous-chef in Roanne for almost two years and never recovered."

He rolls his eyes. "I'll never understand how you stand it." 

Julia laughs. As always, he doesn't ask whether their relationship is real or just a cover, and she continues to toe the line without volunteering the information. Making anything resembling friends in Prestige is hell, and even finding a handler he didn't actually loathe was sheer dumb luck—snitching would probably get Robert and Julia reassigned, or worse. Inconvenient.

They're halfway through the wine bottle and a story about a fantastical near-escape in a Brussels mission by the time Robert decides the meal is satisfactory and starts bringing out the dishes. The pork is admittedly amazing—not enough to justify the three hours Robert spent working on it, but Bernard keeps his peace and sings its praises.

"So, how's life out here treating you?" Robert asks, pouring him more wine.

"Same as always." He shrugs. "Still working on the flat, exercising, reading. I missed several books while training. Plenty of world news, too. Always better to get to know the proper background info before getting a kill order halfway around the world."

"You know, that's something I've always appreciated, Fallon," Robert says. "You do the legwork in advance and you always read up on every mission background. Can't say that of most recruits these days. They read the bullet-points and they're off, it's ludicrous." 

"It's dangerous to make decisions in the field without having all the facts," Bernard says, flashing back to Al's many rants on the subject. He'd always been a fan of improvising, really, before all this. "If something goes awry you have to know where you can and can't cut losses."

"Exactly." Julia beams. "But obviously, if you want _actual_ information, all the media drivel is not going to do you much good." She swishes her wineglass pensively, then says, "Prestige has streams of general background updates for agents, though I'm not sure you have clearance for those quite yet. I'll talk to Caldlow." 

Robert makes a face. "Fair warning, those will make you never want to leave headquarters—it's a constant stream of information, and you'll need to force yourself to disconnect or you won't come up for air at all."

"I don't mind." Bernard feigns discomfort, feels their attention sharpening. "It doesn't feel quite right yet to be out here. I can't say I'd mind being around more."

"Always so serious, Professor," Julia teases.

"I worry about you, Fallon." Robert sighs. "You need to make connections out here. Go out, make some friends. Have fun every once in a while. You won't have a truly good grasp on your cover identity until you have to live it."

**2008**

Even though they've known each other for all of five days, it's clear that Al still doesn't know Bernard. He actually seems surprised when Bernard arrives at his flat with a suitcase, clearly in it for the long haul.

"You're moving in?" 

"I am." Bernard dumps his suitcase in a corner. 

It's an amazing flat, all high ceilings and huge windows; living here will be no hardship, but of course that's not why. He's here to figure out Al—he doesn't want to waste time and brain-space constructing a new identity for himself, not when Al already knows who he is.

Al seems to ponder this over and decide that arguing the matter is not worth it.

"There's just the one bed," is all he points out. Bernard shrugs. It looks big enough. "I'm busy with something. Feel free to look around, but do not touch any of the weaponry. Or the machines. In fact, don't touch anything until I say so. And don't wander off until we've gone over basic security protocols—you're in London, the city with the most extensive CCTV coverage in the world. I'm going to erase traces of your arrival, but now that you're here, you're stuck at the children's table until I say you can play grown-up again. Clear?"

What a bundle of sunshine. "Do you have some crayons I can colour with, mister?"

For the first time since they met, Al grins. "Shouldn't take more than a half hour."

Bernard walks around the flat; there's not much to see. There are two other rooms, both empty, plus a bathroom and a kitchen with the bare essentials. Al seems to spend most of his time in the living room, which has a bed, a ridiculous number of computers, random machines, servers and coolers, plus several bulky black trunks that, judging by the contents of the only open one, probably contain firearms and assorted weapons. Off to the side, a clothes rack has a variety of suits and assorted outfits. Upon closer inspection, it's a range of clothing so deliberately broad that it can only indicate that Al has to take on new identities far too often to have a personal style.

He sits on one of the trunks and waits for Al's typing to finally slow down.

"How come you let me just walk in here?" is his first question. "How can you trust that whoever you're running from hasn't hired me to kill you or something, you know?"

"I've been watching you for six months, and researching you for twice that. I would have noticed the signs."

It probably should sound creepy, but Bernard's almost flattered. "A year? You seem like the kind of guy who could dredge up someone's entire life in five minutes."

"You've had a lot of lives," Al says. "You're—interesting."

Definitely flattered. "Most people would probably say I'm a con man if they knew."

Al doesn't seem bothered. "You're not doing it for the fame or the money. You don't even seem to be targeting anyone in particular when you make a new identity, you only happen to pick up new friends along the way. Frankly, I think you just get bored."

It's said so casually that Bernard smiles.

"You've changed since last week," Al observes. "The accent, the speech patterns, the posture, the hair. Even the makeup made your bone structure look completely different back there. Who are you now?"

"Just Bernard." He shrugs. "Haven't decided yet. So, you know all about me—you evening the playing ground at any point?"

And then Al does, just like that. He talks about Prestige, an underground black ops division that takes care of governments' dirty laundry—not just the UK, but all countries in the Five Eyes Alliance, and occasionally others on the side, too. They have fingers in all the pies and eyes in every corner. Al got recruited and trained as a kid, made full agent at age 12, and was well on track to run the London branch when he decided to go rogue four years ago. They killed his fiancée, he mentions in passing, without specifying when; Bernard can tell that topic is off-limits.

Al doesn't gloss over the questionable side of things: he's hurt and killed plenty of people, and ruined countless other lives besides. He both hates Prestige and thinks they do necessary dirty work; he wants to take them down because they're increasingly corrupt and playing both sides of the game, but he has no illusions that someone worse won't step up and take their place.

It's a fascinating story, but. "So what's the point of doing it at all?" Bernard asks. Being a hero and trying to save the world is all well and good in theory, but he's a bit disappointed his own brother is acting with that kind of motivation. Humans in general are just plain not worth the effort.

"I'm calling my own shots now. I decide what's worth doing and what needs to be stopped. Caldlow definitely needs to be stopped—he's lost sight of any goal other than 'getting more powerful' years ago. And all this needs to get public. It's good for people to have some idea what intelligence is up to. Makes them less daft. Makes them _think_ a little for once, maybe."

Bernard laughs. "I wouldn't hold my breath on that one."

**2013**

"In position," Bernard reports over comms, and examines the mansion's windows through his rifle's scope. "No eyes on the target yet."

"Copy that, Professor," Robert replies.

He mutes Prestige and switches to secondary comms protocol. "In position," he repeats for Al's benefit. Playing both sides on the field is always exciting and terrifying in equal measure. Any slip-up can get him or Al exposed, caught, even killed—even a minor one such as using the wrong comms frequency at the wrong time.

"For a media mogul, the target's near impossible to get in touch with," Al grumbles. He's panting, probably running. "I gave up on warning him, I'm going in."

Bernard does the mental switch to plan D specs and surveys the area. There's no visible sign of anyone breaching the perimeter, even from Bernard's vantage point.

"Car approaching," he announces on both channels, and switches back to Al's as the target's black saloon makes its way to the garage.

"Car's in, I'm up."

There's silence for several minutes; then the saloon exits the garage, and another, and another—which means Al has either succeeded in convincing the target to run (plan D) or to hide and wait out the storm (plan F).

"I'm escorting Mr Ayu to a secure room," Al's voice comes through after a second, and Bernard switches on the Prestige comms.

"Danton, three cars are leaving, I haven't got eyes on the target yet."

"How did that happen?"

"Nothing I could see. It may be unrelated. He might still be inside."

"Heat sig shows each car has a driver and one passenger." There's brief chatter between Robert and Nikola as they go over similarities with the target's heat signature from moments before. "Not close enough to make the call, and security cameras aren't helping. Stay in position, keep an eye on those windows. Let me know if the target shows."

"Copy that."

After a while, Al's voice comes in. "Copied the data and corrupted the original, he didn't even notice." Bernard breathes out, relieved. "Target says he's moving to a more secure location in the morning. I told the target to stay put in the panic room, so he should know better, but if he's stubborn enough that you get a visual, that's on him."

Bernard laughs. "Copy that. Robert's furious. Did you check the files?"

"Interesting stuff. Seems to be proper blackmail material on hundreds of executives and politicians from all over the world. No wonder Caldlow couldn't wait to get his hands on this."

"Good job. How long should I wait out here, you think, before I can call it a day?"

"Three hours, maybe four. More if they didn't buy the decoys and think the target's still inside."

"Damn." Bernard stretches, covers his face with his face and blows out some hot air. "My butt’s freezing out here."

"Living the life." Al snorts, and Bernard can't hold back a grin. "Why don't you go chat with Robert?" he asks, teasing. "He'll keep you entertained."

"Your jealousy's showing, Al."

"Oh yes," he deadpans. "Leave Robert, fuck the Prestige, let's run away to Bali together."

That surprises a laugh out of Bernard. "You know you're my one and only."

"I came first, you mean."

"And isn't that the foundation of every truly giving relationship?"

It's Al's turn to bark out a laugh. "You're deplorable," he says, and it may have taken Bernard months to catch on to the fondness in his tone, but it's unmistakable now. "Prick."

**2009**

Al's reticent to teach Bernard anything at first, though he does give basic directions about where to find the information. As Bernard proves himself a quick study, however, he starts to relent and open up. They share many of the same preferences as to how to get things done—subterfuge over violence, manipulation over forceful invasion—and there isn't much Al can teach him about those; on the contrary, they work off of each other more often than not, honing their skills by forging identities on the spot and testing plans and ploys. They play each other, sometimes, just for kicks, and that might just be his favourite: he never understands Al as completely as he does when they're in each other's heads.

Learning how to disappear more effectively becomes learning basic data security measures becomes advanced system infiltration techniques, with a couple hours a day of martial arts training on the side. Before Bernard realises it, he's been living in Al's flat for almost a year, and he's on an intensive work regimen that requires more reading, typing and weight-lifting than he's ever done before. 

It's weird, no doubt about it. He hasn't shared living space with anyone for this long since he was a kid—let alone under his own name, which is the weirdest part of it all. But Bernard watches Al take on deep cover identities for one-off missions like it's nothing, shed them when he comes home—joke about them, even—and it feels...normal. They wear disguises when they go out, of course, and it's a one-upmanship game: refining all the little things that make casual observers notice and immediately forget them.

He hasn't felt the itch to move on just yet, is still far too enthralled by the novelty of it, but he does want to do— _something_. All this practice feels like Al's priming him for something, and it doesn't take a genius to guess what that might be.

"You want to take this one?" Al asks one afternoon, nodding toward a side monitor while he types something on the centre screen. "Rodrigo 'Suíço' Cavalcante, huge player in South American arms dealing, just arrived in the city. He's got a huge list of contacts; Prestige has powerful connections there, but having access to this could change that."

Bernard puts down the weights and walks over to skim the schedule on the screen: party, another party, big band show, another party. "Big public events mean heavy security and cameras."

"No public events, then," Al agrees, still typing.

He reads the profile more closely, getting to the known associates section. "Ah."

Al stops, looks up. "Problem?"

"Not at all." He hasn't so much as spared a thought to sex in ages, but now the prospect sounds enticing. The man's fit, too. "Should be fun. Did you do a lot of this kind of mission?"

"Yeah. Still do."

"You like them?" Al nods once, a minute shoulder twitch indicating he's uncomfortable, but he doesn't resume typing. "Those in particular?"

When their eyes meet, Bernard grins with understanding. 

"Ah. Knowing you've cracked them, that you know just what makes them tick, you've got them on their knees and they don't even have the slightest idea who you are. Yeah." He licks his lips, the familiar thrill racing at the memory of the feeling—there's nothing like it. Well, so they're both more than a little fucked up, who cares. "You ever fucked anyone who knows you for real?"

"I'd never trust anyone in this line of work. That's suicide."

Bernard tries to imagine Al bringing someone else home, showing them the guns, the view, the bed—and already wants to punch them in the dick. "Bed's not big enough for three psychopaths anyway."

Al's full-on grinning now, too. "Really? You're _that_ narcissistic."

"As if you aren't."

**2014**

When Bernard walks into Operations for his first morning briefing, he's surprised to see Julia there. He's never worked with her—whatever her specialty, it's above his pay grade. She gives him a tight smile and continues to hover behind Nikola's computer screen, shoulders tense.

After a few minutes, Robert and Olivia steps in. Julia was alarming enough, but Olivia, too?

"We have a situation in Kraków," Olivia says, and the screen shows a familiar photo. "This is Alfred Borden. He was a Prestige agent for many years before betraying us and going rogue during an undercover op. He is personally responsible for the deaths of dozens of Prestige agents, and has sabotaged many missions since he's left us. Suffice to say he holds a grudge."

Bernard has always known this could happen—the two of them discussed this eventuality, and Al has even given him blanket permission to shoot him if necessary—but it's still surreal.

"There is a business transaction taking place in Kraków this weekend," Robert continues, and the screen changes to a picture of a woman. "Bogumiła Warczyk, leader of a group of highly trained mercenaries, has liberated a priceless art collection that one of our allies has taken an interest in. We've received intel that Borden is in town, no doubt hired by the competition. The general goal is to secure the exchange, which could be straightforward—but with Borden there, all bets are off."

"I've raised your clearance level so you can access Borden's file. He has a very unique style." Olivia hands him and Julia flash drives. "Study Alfred Borden, get to know him inside and out. If you do not understand how he operates, he will run circles around you, and disappear before you even know he's there. He is very, very good at this—he's a natural, the likes of which I have never seen."

Robert crosses his arms. "This is quite the opportunity. We seldom get warning of Borden's interference until after the fact; for once, we have the upper hand. But the window of opportunity is very narrow—the deal will happen in three days. As knowledge of Borden's existence and status is classified, only the two of you are being briefed in full. Caldlow has cleared unlimited budget and team size for this, and you have first pick of all Prestige agents for the main mission; your job is to predict and counter Borden's tactics. Needless to say, you'd be doing Prestige and this country a favour if you take him out on sight."

"He's beat you to Poland by a few days, which means he has probably made contact with Warczyk and may well have gained her trust," Olivia points out. "You may already be too late."

Bernard raises his chin to speak and Robert nods. "Is there anyone who worked with Borden directly who could join us? Previous experience might be more helpful than mission reports."

"I was Borden's handler," says Olivia. "I can tell you anything you need to know."

**2010**

The sound of papers shuffling wakes Bernard. He goes immediately alert, looks at the desk, sees Al rifling through their identity resources, and relaxes. Soon enough, Al finds what he's looking for and sits at the computer; Bernard dozes off to the sound of furious typing.

When he wakes up again, Al's fingers are still flying across the keyboard and the desk looks even more like a disaster zone.

"What's going on?"

"I got a tip a few hours ago about a people-smuggling ring operating out of Corpus Christi, Texas," Al explains. "I started looking into it, and Prestige has apparently been spending millions funding the operation for years. It makes no sense, so I think it's a front for something worse. My contact doesn't know much."

"You're going in."

"In a few weeks, I reckon. This cover needs thorough prep; I need to have had jail time logged in the system and some specific connections, all depending on other people." Al turns to look at him. "This may take a while. Maybe two, three months—I have no way of knowing until I'm there."

Bernard rubs his face, processing it. The prospect is surprisingly unsettling; Al hasn't been gone for more than a few days at a time since he moved in. The one time he'd taken on a deep cover identity in Johannesburg for several weeks, Bernard had gone as well, subbing for Al on occasion and observing his style. He's tempted to offer to go this time, but this isn't the kind of mission Al can get away with performing with a double.

So, he has a few unexpected free months ahead of him. What now? He can get back to his old life, of course, and work some of his new skills into his old modus operandi. He can also stay here and keep researching and learning on his own. Neither prospect is particularly interesting. Al would want him to stay and wait; he wants them to work together from now on, that much is obvious. 

Well, Bernard has other ideas. 

"I want to join Prestige," he announces, and enjoys watching Al freeze and stare at him.

"They'll—"

"Not if I do a good job."

"But you—"

"Plastic surgery."

Al runs fingers through his hair, looking conflicted. "I won't b—"

"We can figure out some way of keeping in touch when I've made agent. You know it'll be faster with someone on the inside. You can keep chipping away at them from here, but it's too much to handle without more information."

"This isn't your fight," Al tries, because Bernard is perfectly right but he doesn't want to admit it. They both know he's never needed a cause to fight for, or something to believe in.

Bernard shrugs. "It's a challenge."

**2014**

It's sleeting in the dark of Kraków, dawn still hours away, when Bernard takes the stairs down into the club, the loud music making the walls and the rail thrum with the rhythm. It takes him a few seconds to spot Al slouching against a wall in a long blond wig and a blue dress, pretending to fiddle with his phone.

He makes his way over, wondering the best way to be heard over the din; he hasn't brought any comms, too worried with staying under the radar. Al answers that question by grabbing him by the lapels and heading to the nearest bathroom. They don't enter, just wait in the nearest corner, people brushing past them as they walk in and out—it's marginally quieter, and it would be awkward for anyone to linger nearby for more than a few seconds.

Bernard splays his hand on the wall, bracketing Al's face, and leans in against his cheek to say, "Two teams, eight people each. Julia's running point, Olivia's on comms."

Al snakes a firm hand around Bernard's neck, holding him in place, and it's—surprisingly distracting, a little heady. Al huffs out a laugh against Bernard's ear when his pulse speeds, the bastard.

"The Szewczyks have a hobby of tracking stolen art for fun," Al reports, all business. "They had a ledger, essentially a who's who of European art collectors who deal in illegal sales. That's what Warczyk truly wanted to steal, and that one is not for sale."

Bernard thinks for a moment, reassessing Julia's additions to his initial plan. "I don't think the collection is what Caldlow is angling for, even though I wasn't told about it. It's probably Julia's side mission to steal the ledger while I keep you distracted fighting over the collection."

"Well, it's a very interesting ledger," Al says, and the ghost of his grin against Bernard's ear makes Bernard shiver. He hasn't played this game in too long. "Not that you're not plenty distracting, but he'd be a fool to think I wouldn't have my priorities straight."

"Can you get the ledger earlier than that?"

"Possibly." Al's silent for a moment while he considers. "I planned to wait for Warczyk to leave for the exchange, but I could try to get it early Sunday morning. I have an in with her, I just haven't managed to unlock the safe where she's keeping it. I'll see what I can do."

Bernard lets his mind wander for a moment, considering what Al will do to get himself alone and undisturbed time in the morning in Warczyk's room, and immediately hates himself for it. He can picture it so clearly that his half-hard cock throbs, straining against too-tight pants; there's no way Al, thigh fit snugly between Bernard's legs, hasn't felt that.

Al huffs out another laugh. "If everything works out, I'll put up a token resistance during the exchange on Sunday. Don't worry, I'll make it good, you won't have to save face."

"You are such a prick," Bernard says, with feeling.

"Takes one, probably," Al retorts, smirking, and disappears into the crowd.

**2010**

"There are ten surgeons in the world who can alter fingerprints without any traces and be trusted to keep it quiet, maybe half that who are willing to do elective surgery on vocal cords," Al rattles off, walking around the flat. Bernard hums in noncommittal agreement, focused on the plan he's typing. "Eye colour change is easier. Dental is tricky, but should be painless. The bulk of the work would be the facial restructuring."

"Stop walking in circles for a moment and come here. I've narrowed down the list to twenty LA surgeons, and detailed what I'll need done in each of six separate procedures. Take a look, see if you know anything about these people. I've researched them all, but maybe I've missed something. The American government has too many person-of-interest databases."

"Los Angeles?" Al asks with a grimace.

"No one in the world is more used to signing lengthy NDAs." Bernard shrugs. "And anyone who's nobody is a lot safer there than all the celebrities. I wouldn't even register, especially if I split the tasks as separate jobs contracted out to different surgeons."

Al starts looking through the list, and stops. "Are you sure you're going through with this, Bernard?"

"Stop asking me that, _Alfred_ ," he snaps, annoyed.

"It's—a monumental self-sacrifice, it—"

"Yes, it will feel strange," he admits, "but it's wearing a different skin. Nothing I haven't done before."

"You could always come back to your original self before."

"Well, that's what I have you for," Bernard says, and grins. "I'll be fine, Al. Now tell me what kind of background checks Prestige runs on its agents, so I can start preparing."

"You might want to stick to an identity you've had before, any of them—maybe even all of them. The most important thing is an airtight story of your recent years, and an excellent reason for you to end up in their clutches, which is to say: an arrest for a crime that catches their eye but not the media's, facing many years' jail time with no hope of release. 

"That aside, they're going to dig deep into your past, but luckily for you, they're not likely to talk to anyone. Raises too many flags. They'll go through records, though, all of them. You'll need doctored photographs going back to your childhood."

Bernard nods. "They knew you as a kid. Those have to be very different."

"They're highly unlikely to check your information against mine, but odds are your file will end up on Olivia's desk, so yes. Definitely."

"Who's Olivia?"

"She... Her official responsibility is to supervise the psychological well-being of all Prestige agent, and to assess the psychological state of Prestige prisoners. She's a profoundly clever and intuitive person, and she makes it her business to know everything about everyone."

Al looks down at his hands. 

"She and I rose up the ranks together, and when she got promoted to full agent, she became my handler. We worked very well together for many years, until she decided she preferred internal work to being out in the field. To the end, she could read me when all others failed; she'll be your biggest challenge. Never lie to Olivia if you can help it; bend the truth as much as you're able, but if you try to flat-out lie, she'll know."

"You liked her," Bernard realises, caught off guard.

"Not like you're thinking, but I did admire her more than anyone else in Prestige. Even Caldlow himself never radiated power quite like she did, for all that he seemed to hold all the cards." He smiles. "I wouldn't be surprised to hear she's now holding many of her own. She's formidable."

Bernard considers this. "Tell me about Caldlow."

"He's the chief of Prestige, all branches. Usually but not always stationed in headquarters. He's more talked about than seen—keeps to his office, mostly, but he always seemed to know everything that was happening, always issued insightful orders without a moment's hesitation. I never fully knew how he kept track of everything, but as I became more senior I started to realise just how much time he spends talking to his immediate subordinates—he's invisible to agents who are starting out, but once you're senior enough, you spend hours every week at his desk, seemingly just chatting, but he's leeching away at your brain for all kinds of information."

"Where did he come from?"

Al shrugs. "No idea. I could never access his file—I'm not even sure he has one. It's an inherited position, I suspect; he wasn't that much older than me, but I've never heard anyone breathe a word of any predecessors, always just 'Caldlow.'"

"Do you think I'll ever meet him?"

"Perhaps." He pauses, thinks. "Only if he takes a personal interest, in which case you're either very lucky or in serious danger, most likely the former. He takes protegés sometimes, moulds them, if he sees potential. Doesn't do the dirty work himself."

"Would it be an advantage for him to take me in? Or would it invite added surveillance and scrutiny?"

"Yes to both." Al shrugs. "Don't let Prestige see all you're capable of. Impressing them is important, but not half as much as having aces up your sleeve. Reveal just enough to make them know you're valuable, but never so much that they won't think they can figure out how to trap you."

**2014**

The trade spot Warczyk has chosen is a tactical nightmare: an old theatre in the outskirts of Kraków that is undergoing renovations. Tools, building materials, scrap metal and tinder are scattered over ratty red velvet seats and hollow, echo-prone wooden floors. The half-demolished structures offer far too many hiding spots; for all they know, Al and Warczyk could already be present, laughing themselves silly at their futile precautions.

The Prestige team arrives on site at seven o'clock, five hours before the trade. They know they can only offset the risk of unfamiliar, disadvantageous grounds with cautious strategic placement; after debating several schemes, they agree on using the stage for the trade. The position is far too exposed, naturally, but also the hardest to sneak up on—the stage is bare save for a doorframe, some tables, and the now-fallen curtains gathering dust in a corner.

An hour before appointed time, the buyer, Harris, arrives.

Julia orders snipers up to the dress and upper circles, 360º patrols around the theatre and in main transit areas, and watches the backstage area herself. Bernard is stationed with three agents in a corner of the stalls floor, with a good angle of all area entrances.

Ten minutes after the appointed time, there's no sign of Warczyk or Al. The agent beside Bernard fidgets, and he ignores the urge to do the same.

Back in London, Robert and Olivia are having increasingly terse exchanges via comms, which Bernard and Julia can listen in on from their private channel. Bernard is enjoying the experience immensely. The two of them have vastly different perspectives on Al: Robert snipes with ill-disguised hostility, while Olivia appears to speak from a place of—almost respect, as if Al's departure had only served to improve her opinion of him. Bernard files that away for future consideration.

"We have to give serious thought to the possibility that Borden may have already obtained the collection and possibly convinced Warczyk to back off from the deal entirely," Olivia points out.

Robert snarls, "If that’s happened, there's nothing we can do about it."

"They may not have left the country yet," she says, still calm. "You may be wasting efforts in the wrong direction. You could be playing into his—"

"Someone's here," Julia whispers on comms, and Olivia falls silent.

"Heads up," one of the snipers alerts, and everyone's eyes are drawn to a flutter of movement high above the stage. Something stirs once, twice, too fast to identify. Then it drops suddenly, pulling with it a long rope; three snipers get a hit on the unidentified object before it falls to the ground, spilling sand everywhere.

"But if that sandbag is tied to a rope," one of the agents notices, "and is now getting empty—"

"Hold your fire!" Al's voice booms out; as Julia's voice starts to come in to tell them otherwise, a wave of static drowns out their comms signal on all channels. Nearby agents, alarmed, turned to Bernard for direction. He raises his fist. _Wait._

Al descends onto the stage from above slowly as the sandbag goes up, and it's almost like he's going completely over the top and showing off for Bernard. Just a tad.

"Who's this guy?" an agent whispers, and Bernard gives an inward round of applause to Robert's stellar decision to keep the rest of the team in the dark. That makes things so much easier. "Where's Warczyk?" 

"I'm sad to report you've all wasted your time here today," Al calls out, voice reverberating with theatre acoustics. He grabs the money briefcase from a baffled Harris and shoos him off the stage with a wave. "The collection is gone, the ledger is long gone, and Ms Warczyk is—tied up. As is your colleague backstage, incidentally; Prestige training clearly isn't what it used to be." 

A shoot order, it's beyond time for a shoot order, his brain reminds him, but—he can't, Al's too open, it's too risky. The only alternative that occurs to him is to run at the stage with his gun raised, yelling like a complete idiot, "Sir, put that down right now!"

Al barely spares him an amused eyebrow raise. "Give my regards to Caldlow," he announces to the room at large with a ridiculous bow, and reaches for the stage doorframe.

Bernard realises what's about to happen a second before Al turns the doorknob. 

"Shoot him!" he roars as the door opens. 

He's the first to take a shot, and his bullet goes through solid wood and nothing else; Al's disappeared into thin air.

"What the fuck," a whispered voice says behind him.

Bernard makes a big showing of stepping onto the stage and approaching the doorframe with caution, gun still raised. 

He gives the floor a light kick, for show. 

"Trap door!" he calls out, triggering the opening mechanism and jumping down after Al, confident he's had enough of a head-start to make this a pointless chase.

**2010**

Bernard realises someone is watching him before he opens his eyes. He forces deep breaths to keep his body from tensing and moves to lie on his side, pulling the sheets with him; underneath, his fingers slide to the corner of the mattress and dip lower, feeling around for the knife that should be hidden there.

"Looking for this?" Al's voice is tinged with amusement, and Bernard's eyes fly open. The prick is standing next to the bed, spinning said knife on two fingers and probably watching Bernard's panicked reaction out of pure sadism.

They haven't seen each other in four months, not since Al left for the Texas undercover op. Bernard's surprised at how warm he feels to see Al again—he has an honest-to-god urge to hug him, but he's not entirely sure he wouldn't get punched in the face for doing it. He sits up and glares instead, knowing fully well Al can see through it if he wants.

Al's gaze keeps fleeting across his face, and—oh, of course. He hadn't seen Bernard's new face yet. It's all healed by now, head and hands both, ugly scarring tissue and bandages all but gone. He's tries not to look at himself in the mirror much. It doesn't feel like he's pulled an amazing trick; it feels like he's lost part of who he is.

Approaching the bed, Al ghosts his fingertips over the new cheekbones, eyelids, jawline. "I hadn't—" he starts, stops, like he himself can't pin it down either. He doesn't stop touching, hesitant, so careful, and Bernard lets his eyes drift shut; it's the closest he's had to feeling right in his skin since the surgeries. Something inside him clenches at the thought that Al knows he's breaking and is acting—soft, even though he's normally nothing but, all hard and sharp edges.

"You have the birthmark," Al says, fingertips feather-light over the mark on Bernard's hip, the same one that Al has on his own, and suddenly that's not enough; Bernard so desperately wants it harder, needs Al to hold tighter, to bruise him, to punch him in the face—anything to make him feel like himself again.

For once, Al doesn't do what Bernard needs; he just stands there, roaming hands still too soft, too patient. He waits.

"I'm still not used to the voice change," Bernard croaks after a while, voice faltering from disuse and nothing else. He breathes in and out, Al's familiar scent grounding him. "Haven't figured out how to modulate it properly yet."

"It's okay."

He tries to focus on the back-and-forth rhythm of Al's thumb on his shoulder, steady and regular, but his mind keeps spiralling. Deep breaths, back and forth, back and forth. "I really appreciate your not coming in guns blazing because there's a strange man in your bed," he tries to joke, but it falls flat, and it's not them—it's him, he doesn't _fit_ —

"Stop," Al says fiercely, grabbing Bernard by the cuff and bringing him closer, foreheads together. "We're still the same, no matter what. This is just another disguise. If it gets hard, you play me. Let me handle it."

**2014**

"I had an interesting conversation with Nikola at headquarters this morning," says Bernard as he steps into the flat.

Al stills the punching bag he's been pummelling and turns to listen, chest still heaving.

"I asked him about Prestige data security measures and he just went off talking about it for half an hour. Diagrams and everything. No specific server locations, but some are easy to guess, given what we know."

"He just—volunteered the information?" Al asks, frowning as he removes his heavy-bag gloves.

Bernard waves off the suspicion. "Well, I've been laying the groundwork for months, showing an interest in his work. He just revamped the whole system, so he jumped at the chance to brag about it."

He sits at the computer and starts charting the scheme from memory, adding notes with occasional details Nikola had let spill during their other conversations. It's an elegant scheme, he has to admit—as redundant and robust as necessity dictates, but surprisingly slim and efficient. Sabotaging it will be a nightmare.

"We can probably query the database for the operations that secured and maintained these locations," Al suggests, reading over his shoulder. "If each remote server storage facility was built on ground scanned for magnetic and seismic anomalies and later double-tied into the closest network hubs, both ops require specific equipment and agents with a particular background. Plus, with that much weaponry stored, there will be some internal paper trail."

"Wouldn't that kind of thing be classified beyond our access level?" They've been siphoning data from Prestige spoofing the identity of agents not far beyond Bernard's level, rotating between them with each access. "Plus, at least two of the fourth-tier redundancy points are encryption-booby-trapped data pockets outside Prestige control—one is a monthly backup to grey NSA core servers, and the other uses a civilian third party's servers."

"That's not how they do these things. They break it apart into so many little ops that one hand never knows what the other is doing, and only those at the top can see the full picture. It's more efficient, keeps high-level agents on truly sensitive ops. And that's AWS, probably. I did some recon into some of their centres not long before I left Prestige. That one is going to be hell."

They work in silence, Al pausing from time to time to glare at the computer like it has personally offended him. Before long, Bernard has finished typing from memory and started adding speculations and questions under each section—clearly marked, of course, because Al is nothing if not anal about his intel notation system.

"Four Prestige branches, five offsite facilities, two backup plants," he sums up, looking at the map. "That's eleven places we need to hit simultaneously to have any kind of chance of taking them down. Good thing we have some practice being in several places at once."

"You're really not funny at all," says Al, but he's grinning. "I have an idea."

**2010**

It takes three months of training for Bernard to gain access to Prestige's recruit computer labs. From there, sneaking to it in off-hours under the guise of practicing his programming skills, running the shell program and typing up Al's encryption keys from memory, is easy.

" _Boring day at church_ ," he types, hoping Al's online.

When the prearranged all-clear reply comes almost instantly ( _Well, the preacher's a prick_ ), he struggles not to let happiness and relief show on his face. Al is alive and safe and _there _—but Prestige cameras are watching, always.__

_How are things?_

" _Doing okay. Finished basics 1. Just got assigned a handler, seems not too bad._ "

_Who's the handler?_

" _Robert Angier. You know him?_ "

_No. I'll look him up, one sec._

" _He said he transferred here from New York a few months ago. Doesn't act like half as much of a prick as everyone else in here, fortunately._ "

_Most of the record I'm seeing is classified beyond this access level, so he's pretty high up. Level 10 at least._

_No photos, no information on his life before Prestige. What little I can see is impressive, though. Lots of war zone stealth and political intrigue. Redacted ops all over the place._

_He didn't transfer from America, he came from Beijing. Be careful._

" _Ok. Any new developments?_ "

_Been busy messing up a lot of missions lately. Caldlow's put a Triad hit on me after a bad one in Toronto, so I'm in hiding for a few weeks._

" _Good luck. I have to go. Should we schedule regular times to keep in touch?_ "

_Better not have a routine. They might notice. I'll be around._

" _Ok. I'll see you when I see you. Don't die, prick._ "

**2014**

Prestige is destroyed the morning after Christmas—a rainy, miserable morning when hardly anyone has dragged themselves to work yet. The plan goes without a hitch. The malware they had planted funnels the bulk of Prestige data to Wikileaks and Interpol, and then starts corrupting everything that remains. The destruction trips the activation switch on the inert receivers they'd planted in each Prestige branch and backup location over the past few weeks. Backups, personal computers, even wireless comms and security cameras: everything starts failing and crashes badly within a few minutes. Prestige accounts in banks in multiple countries start transferring their full balance to thousands of charities, in amounts too granular to trace. 

The ensuing chaos only lasts long enough for some well-placed C4 to blow headquarters to hell. Cascading detonations target each backup remote database, from military-grade bunkers to civilian collocation centres around the world. Within less than an hour, it's all over. 

Bernard and Al rendezvous at the London flat later the following evening, one arriving from Washington and the other from Beijing. It hardly feels real, after all this time planning, but this is it—they've actually made it. This is where all their plans end. 

They have never really talked about where to go from here. 

"We should leave the flat behind for good." Al somehow manages to fit even more blades and guns than usual on himself: boots, ankles, calves, thighs—wait, did he actually just hide a knife in his pants? "They'll find this place soon enough."

"Safe-house for now?" he suggests, grabbing weapons of his own, fake papers, some cash. "Maybe we should try to make it out as far as possible while we can."

"That _would_ have been the wise choice, yes," says a new voice. Robert steps into the room, gun raised, pointed straight at Al.

They both freeze.

"Caldlow," Al breathes out, and _what_.

Bernard goes through everything he knows about Robert—not a lot, certainly nothing verifiable, apart from what little Al had dug up when he'd first became Bernard's handler during training. He and Julia had always shared a lot of their history while chatting, but that had probably been a cover, hadn’t it? Bernard is a complete idiot. It had never even occurred to him.

"What is it with you two?" Robert—Caldlow asks, waving his gun from one to the other. "You know, Fallon, you had that—air about you that had everyone falling over themselves to train you, exactly like Borden when we were younger. I always knew you were a liability, just like he was."

"Is that why you pretended to be my handler?" Bernard asks, and Caldlow fires a warning shot that zooms right past his left hand.

"I'm asking the questions," Caldlow barks. "What did he promise you, Fallon? What could possibly have been worth the risk? Do you have any idea who Borden is? The things he's done? What he's capable of?"

He glances at Al, and they share a split second of perfect understanding. Bernard turns back to Caldlow with a grin, calm despite the rush of adrenaline. "Do you?"

Caldlow takes a step forward to continue talking; but as he looks down on a reflex to avoid the supplies strewn everywhere, Al and Bernard pull their guns from their shoulder holsters and shoot once, twice.

While Bernard pops two smoke bombs to hold Caldlow off for a few more seconds, Al grabs the nearest parachute and the flat failsafe detonator. Bernard doesn't spare a moment to think about any of it; he just grabs on to Al's back and both jump out the window. Caldlow is yelling something, now too far away to hear. Above them, the flat goes up in flames.

When they reach the ground, the streets around them are deserted. Bernard starts looking around for cars to hotwire; right now he can't trust any of their previous transportation not to have been bugged or sabotaged. He's trying not to think about things, but his brain is raging at his own incompetence.

"Robert," Al prompts.

"I'm so thick," Bernard says, and leans against a red Honda to start working at it from his phone. " _Thick_. How could I not have seen it? How can we both have missed it? This is pathetic, we're clearly rubbish at this."

The car beeps open.

"He's been doing this for a long time," Al reasons, getting inside. "I never imagined I'd gone through training with Caldlow. I never recognised him, even back when I saw Caldlow regularly. He’s probably been living with various disguises his whole life."

"If he and Julia—whoever she actually is—really were together, she's going to rain fire and brimstone on us when she finds out." Bernard starts driving, aimless, while he thinks. "I don’t think we need to worry about Olivia; I reckon she’ll be happy to have an excuse to start something independent. Julia, on the other hand, may well have access to all of Caldlow’s connections, even if the bulk of the money's gone. She'll get us flagged with GCHQ and every intelligence service in the world."

"They'll expect us to be on the run, which means eyes on border patrols. We'll be safer if we stay put somewhere they'd never think of looking. Hide out in Cumbria for a while, maybe, or Durham."

They're silent for a moment, contemplating the prospect of months, possibly years, of peace and quiet. 

" _Or,_ " Bernard says pointedly.

"Or we could...not."

"We could always join a circus, you know."

"Go to Monaco, hit the tables."

"Steal the Mona Lisa."

"No use, it's a fake."

"Seriously?"

"Had a mission to nick it years ago as pay-off for an Italian mafia boss. Shame. He's made Cardinal now, the bastard. Probably still has it locked up in a basement somewhere."

Bernard drums his fingers on the wheel. "Could always get it back," he says lightly.

Al gives him a look. He looks back, innocent. 

Oh, well, who needs peace and quiet anyway.

"Why not." Al grins. "Let's go steal the Mona Lisa."


End file.
